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To him that did but yesterday suspire,*
There was not such a gracioust creature born.
But now will canker sorrow. eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow, as, a ghost;
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit;
And so he'll die; and, rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him: therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
Const. He talks to me that never had a son.
K. Phil. You are as fond of grief as of your child.

Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child.
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief.

There's nothing in this world can make me joy:
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

Methinks, nobody should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be merry as the day is long.

* Breathe.


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Have you the heart? When your head did but ache
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)
And I did never ask it you again :
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time;
Saying, What lack you ? and, Where lies your grief?
Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning: do, an if you will.
If Heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,
Why, then you must.— Will you put out mine eyes ?
These eyes that never did, nor never shall,
So much as frown on you ?

Alas! what need you be so boist'rous rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still,
For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound !

Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angrily:

Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.
Is there no remedy ?

None, but to lose your eyes.
Arth. Oh, Heaven !—that there were but a mote in

A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand'ring hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense !
Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.


To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with a taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.


If thou didst but consent To this most cruel act, do but despair, And, if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread That ever spider twisted from her womb Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be A beam to hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown

thyself, Put but a little water in a spoon,

And it shall be as all the ocean,
Enough to stifle such a villain up.


Let me wipe off this honourable dew,
That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks:
My heart hath melted at a lady's tears,
Being an ordinary inundation;
But this effusion of such manly drops,
This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul,
Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amazed
Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven
Figured quite o’er with burning meteors.
Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,
And with a great heart heave away this storm :
Commend these waters to those baby eyes,
That never saw the giant world enraged;
Nor met with fortune other than at feasts,
Full warm of blood, of mirth, of gossiping.


It is too late; the life of all his blood
Is touched corruptibly; and his pure brain
(Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house,)
Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Fortell the ending of mortality.


England never did (nor never shall)
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her princes are come home again,

Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them: Naught shall make us rue
If England to itself do rest but true.



The purest treasure mortal time afford,
Is-spotless reputation ; that away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.


That which in mean men we entitle-patience,
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.

O, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December's snow,
By thinking on fantastic summer's heat ?
O, no! the apprehension of the good,
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse :
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more,
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.


Know'st thou not
That when the searching eye of Heaven is hid

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